Chelsea Mansions Read Free

the Hilton.’
    Kathy looked around the room. Homely would have been a kind description, shabby more accurate, the furnishings looking as tired as Emerson, like the relics of a Victorian family’s house sale.
    ‘Bit rough?’ she said.
    ‘Oh, splendid view, but those stairs . . . You didn’t meet the porter. He has an artificial leg. He hauled our bags all the way up. And what is it with the English and plumbing?’ His shoulders sagged.
    ‘I’m sorry. Would you rather do this another time?’
    ‘No, no, go ahead. What are you looking for, her drug stash?’
    Kathy gave a little smile and opened the wardrobe. ‘So there’s no possibility that Nancy knew this man?’
    ‘Absolutely not. Oh God, how am I going to tell her family? She has sons in California and Oregon, and a sister in Cape Cod, cousins, grandchildren . . .’
    ‘We’ll do everything we can, and of course the American Embassy will want to help you with arrangements.’
    ‘Oh yes, I suppose so.’
    ‘There will have to be a post-mortem, and a report to the coroner. I’ll keep you informed.’
    There was nothing in the least remarkable about Nancy Haynes’ belongings, their very ordinariness a painful reproach. She had an account with the Citizens Bank in Boston, was reading Anita Shreve’s latest novel, taking blood pressure and antihistamine tablets, and had an address book in which the only UK contact was someone called McKellar in Angus, Scotland.
    ‘A distant cousin she made contact with. Like I told you, she wanted to check out her family roots. There should be some family photos she brought to show them.’
    Kathy found the pouch in the lid of Nancy’s suitcase, containing a wad of pictures of children, family gatherings, studio portraits and some older black and white images of smiling forebears.
    ‘They’ll blame me, you know.’ Emerson sighed, staring at one of the photos of a family group.
    ‘Of course not. There was nothing you could do.’
    ‘All the same, they’ll think I should have protected her. Maybe if I’d tried harder to get a cab, or figured out how to pay for the bus . . .’
    ‘You can’t look at it that way. Was she well off?’
    ‘She owns a valuable house in a good area of Boston, but she was short of cash. Net income last year was thirty-seven thousand dollars. I still do her tax returns. She invested unwisely a couple of years ago against my advice and her savings took a whack. But she was still adamant that we come on this trip.’
    Kathy got details of next of kin and returned downstairs.Toby was waiting for her in the hall, a determined set to his mouth. He stepped forward.
    ‘Look, I didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Toby Beaumont, the owner of the hotel, and behind the counter is Deb Collins, our manager and receptionist and mainstay of the operation. We were just discussing . . . it’s hard not to feel a personal involvement with something like this. Of course you have hundreds of terrible cases to deal with, but this is so . . .  intolerably unfair. What I’m trying to say is that we would like you to give us your personal assurance that Nancy’s death will be pursued to the very utmost of the police capacities.’
    ‘Yes, I can assure you of that, Mr Beaumont. We will do everything we can to solve this case.’
    ‘Right,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Thank you. Well, if there’s anything we can do, you must let us know.’
    ‘Mr Merckle has taken one of the pills the doctor gave him and is lying down for a while. He was supposed to be going on to Scotland tomorrow, but I think he may want to remain in London for a few more days. Can he stay here?’
    ‘Of course, as long as he likes.’
    He didn’t have to consult the computer. Business must be quiet, Kathy thought.
    ‘I’m going to arrange for someone from Victim Support to contact him, and see what help they can give. Here’s my card, and if anything occurs to you please get in touch.’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Beaumont looked as